"Ah! I am sorry he has got that cough. How is his appetite?"
"He does not fancy much food. He has quite turned against his beef-tea."
Doctor Watson was silent.
"What is wrong?" asked Mrs. Home, coming nearer and looking up into his face.
"Madam, there is nothing to alarm yourself with. Your boy has gone through a most severe illness; the natural consequences must follow. He wants change. He will be fit to travel by easy stages in a week at latest. I should recommend Torquay. It is mild and shielded from the spring east winds. Take him to Torquay as soon as possible. Keep him there for a month, and he will return quite well."
"Suppose I cannot?"
"Ah! then——" with an expressive shrug of the shoulders and raising of the brows, "my advice is to take him if possible. I don't like that cough."
Doctor Watson turned away. He felt sorry enough, but he had more acute cases than little Harold Home's to trouble him, and he wisely resolved that to think about what could not be remedied, would but injure his own powers of working. Being a really kind-hearted man he said to himself, "I will make their bill as light as I can when I send it in." And then he forgot the poor curate's family until the time came round for his next visit. Meanwhile Mrs. Home stood still for a moment where he had left her, then went slowly to her own room.
"Mother, mother, I want you," called the weak, querulous voice of the sick child.
"Coming in a moment, darling," she said. But for that one moment, she felt she must be alone.